The next morning, Amber arrived early, her hands trembling as she placed Charles's notebook on his side of the table. She'd barely slept, her guilt over reading it warring with the images burned into her mind—those dancers, that anguished boy. When Charles entered, his eyes locked on the notebook, and his face paled, a flicker of panic crossing his features. He grabbed it, fingers tightening as if it might vanish, and slipped it into his bag without a word.
"Found it under your chair," Amber said, arranging her pencils to avoid his gaze, her voice barely steady.
"Thanks," he said, his tone tight, clipped. His eyes searched hers, probing for signs she'd looked inside, a silent accusation she couldn't meet.
She focused on her sketch, a study of hands Ms. Abernathy had assigned. Hands were her weakness—fingers too stiff, proportions off, lifeless. Charles's notebook had shown hands so vivid they seemed to move, each line pulsing with intent. She crumpled her second attempt, frustration mounting, the paper's crackle loud in the quiet room.
Lena slid into a nearby seat, her sketchbook open to a chaotic abstract in reds and blacks. "Rough morning?" she asked, nodding at the crumpled paper, her smile sympathetic but edged with curiosity.
"Just hands," Amber muttered, her eyes flicking to Charles, who was drawing with fierce focus, his pencil slashing lines.
Charles, silent until now, paused, his gaze softening slightly. He slid his sketchbook toward her, open to a page of hand studies, each pose fluid, alive, capturing motion in stillness. "Think of them as one shape first," he said quietly, not meeting her eyes. "The gesture's more important than perfect knuckles."
Amber blinked, startled by the gesture and the most words he'd ever said to her. "Thanks," she said, her voice soft. "Your hands are… incredible."
He shrugged, but a faint smile tugged at his mouth, fleeting but real. "Practice."
"With dancing?" The question slipped out, reckless, born from the notebook's images and her need to bridge the gap.
Charles froze, his pencil hovering, his body going rigid. His eyes snapped to hers, shock and betrayal flashing across his face. "You read it," he said, his voice low, cutting, each word a shard of glass.
Amber's stomach lurched, her face flushing. "I—I only opened it to check whose it was—"
"And kept reading?" His voice stayed low, but it was sharp, slicing through her excuses. "Those were my thoughts. Private."
"I'm sorry," she stammered, her hands twisting in her lap. "I shouldn't have. I just—"
He turned back to his drawing, shoulders hunched, shutting her out with a wall of silence. Lena watched, her expression unreadable, a mix of sympathy and something sharper, her pencil pausing mid-stroke.
The silence at their table grew heavy, a new barrier rising, colder than before. When class ended, Charles grabbed his things and left without a glance, the notebook clutched like a shield. Amber lingered, her eyes drawn to the critique wall. A new note, in black ink: Curiosity kills trust. Her throat tightened. Was Lena watching her too closely? Or was someone else playing games, their words a trap waiting to spring?